Fred, Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse
by The Mad Fangirl
Summary: It's evening in New York City, and romance is in the air, as are slime, killer confetti, and more than one Ian Nottingham...Prepare yourself, the Highlander guest spots begin here.


Longer Summary: It's evening in New York City, and romance is in the air, as are slime, killer confetti, and more than one Ian Nottingham....Yeah, this is part of my sideways-of-continuity humor series that includes a couple of spare Nottinghams left over from last season. Follows "Supergenius Criminal Mastermind vs. Big Block of Concrete." Hunt that bad boy down if you want the list of the rest of them. This joint here includes a pretty substantial Highlander: The Series element, as well as a few other drop-ins. Oh, yeah, and this bit incorporates events from the episode "Nailed," so spoilers to that point. Enjoy! (Muahahahahaha.....)  
  
Title: Fred, Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse  
  
Spoilers: Through the 7-8-02 episode, "Nailed."  
  
Author: The Mad Fangirl  
  
Archive: Wherever, but let me know.  
  
Disclaimer: The characters herein are owned by other people and I make no money from their shameless exploitation.  
  
A/N: Woulda been done sooner, but there was this guy down in holding giving out free manicures...  
  
* * *  
  
Fred, Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse  
  
by The Mad Fangirl  
  
* * *  
  
Near-soundless feet alighted on a New York fire escape. Near-soundless, but not quiet enough to evade the ears of a woman who lived by her wits or else lost her head. No buzz, but especially in this day and age, that hardly meant a lack of danger. Amanda rose from her pool of sheets and flattened herself against the wall by the window. The sill rose and an object flew in. She bisected it neatly.  
  
"There are eleven more where that came from," a faintly accented voice responded. Amanda looked down to the formerly long-stemmed rose at her feet, then up to Season 1's Ian Nottingham in his full-bearded, long-haired glory, leaning in her window.  
  
"Ian!" she snorted, exasperated. "You could have lost your head!"  
  
"That's why I tossed the rose in first," he replied.  
  
"Don't you ever use a door?"  
  
"I fear that if I did, you'd find me boring."  
  
"There is that," Amanda said, grinning, "but I don't think you have to worry." //You're way, way, too strange for that,// she added mentally. She walked to him and kissed him soundly, and he ran his fingers over her feathery cap of platinum hair.  
  
"Your hair is striking, but...unnatural. Do you think it might look better darker?"  
  
"Maybe long and brown?" she replied, frowning. "Don't even go there. And I won't ask you to wear a kilt."  
  
"But I already..."  
  
"Outside! I won't ask you to wear a kilt outside!"  
  
His deep eyes swept her again, and she shivered. This man seemed to have only two speeds - disdain and worship. Of the gorgeous triplets or whatever at her singer-friend's party, this one reminded her the most of Mac, and she wasn't afraid to admit it. But there were the most intriguing differences; the royal-born MacLeod had never treated anyone with such deference. It was really sexy, in a yeesh-stop-kneeling-already-we're gonna- be-late kind of way.  
  
Then she was backlit, suddenly, by an opening door, and the worship shifted, quicksilver, to horror and rage. Amanda swung her head around to find a slim man clad only in boxers, holding a nearly empty bottle.  
  
"Amanda, darling, have you any more bee-aaack!" For suddenly, Nottingham was behind her, kneeling on the man's chest, one arm across his neck, the other holding his sword-point a centimeter from his eye.  
  
"Oops," Amanda said. She was about to intervene on behalf of her houseguest when a blowing curtain made way for a shaft of moonlight to illuminate his face. Nottingham made a strangled sound, tossed his sword aside, and fell away to prostrate himself at the stunned man's feet.  
  
"My lord!"  
  
"My sentiments exactly," murmured the cultured voice, the man now standing. "Amanda, why's he kneeling? I haven't been worshipped in..." He looked at his watch. "Oh, a few thousand years and change now."  
  
"Well, he says he remembers all his past lives. But he couldn't possibly..."  
  
"My Lord Death, please accept my apologies. I failed you."  
  
"Or maybe he could," Adam Pierson, AKA Methos, the 5000-year-old-man, AKA Death, Horseman of the Apocalypse, replied. "Oh, get up. I gave up Death for Lent." Ian unfolded himself, but kept his head down, eyes decorously downcast.  
  
Amanda glared at Methos over Ian's shoulder. "I just got him to quit doing that!" she hissed. Flowing around the two men, she flicked on the bedroom light and Methos got his first good look at Nottingham.  
  
"Phryd!?"  
  
"Master."  
  
"Fred?"  
  
"Once," said Ian.  
  
"Close enough," Methos replied.  
  
"Fred!? You knew Methos back in the bad old Death days and your name was Fred?" Amanda pinched her nose between her eyes. "Who needs a drink?" she asked, raising her own hand.  
  
* * *  
  
"It's like this," Methos explained, nursing a beer (of course,) as Amanda sipped her second mimosa. "You won't find this in most legends if any, but at one very brief point in history, there were five horsemen of the Apocalypse. We were in the midst of a decent bit of pillaging and ran across this man who fought like a demon and managed to kill each of us at least once. When we came back he worshipped us as deities, and we kept him around, partly because he was good and partly because it was great for our egos."  
  
"War, Death, Famine, Pestilence, and Fred."  
  
"Pretty much."  
  
"So how do you figure you failed me?" Methos said, turning to Ian and taking another swig. Nottingham held some odd drink Amanda had introduced him to, partly liqueur and mostly chocolate milk.  
  
"I died on you."  
  
Methos snorted. "You were going to anyway. Why do you think we never gave you a cool nickname? You were just going to kick off and we didn't want to get into long explanations with anybody. Not to mention, we just didn't want to get too attached. Especially Silas." Nottingham shrugged and got up to refill his drink.  
  
"So," Amanda said, leaning on her elbows, "considering the reputation you boys had back then, whatever would've possessed the kid to challenge the Four Horsemen?"  
  
"Oh, the usual. He'd had a bad breakup with his girlfriend; I'm not sure he cared if he survived. I think I remember her, come to think of it. Attractive brunette with a magic sword."  
  
"You don't say."  
  
"Yep. Left him for some blonde - some sort of guardsman, or maybe a singer. I'm not sure. He never did get over it."  
  
Nottingham 1 returned with not only his own drink, but refills or replacements for the others as well. Amanda sighed as he sat back down at her feet, then gave up and ruffled his hair. He purred. Amanda sighed again and murmured, "I wonder if anyone out there could possibly be having a weirder night than we are."  
  
* * *  
  
Night in NYPD holding, and the cold brick cells faced one another. In one, the television was on, but played only static. In the other, the television played "Sailor Moon."  
  
In the cell with the electronic snow, a woman paced, pausing occasionally to twine her hair about her finger. She wheeled and grabbed the bars with a frustrated sigh.  
  
"Why don't we get anything to do in this story!?" No reply. "Hey, Hannibal? You awake?"  
  
From the other cell came a faint annoyed snort. "Well, it could be that we're just way too creepy and frightening to be funny. By we, of course, I mean me. You're a played-out loser."  
  
"Bastard!"  
  
Richard Dalack's face moved into the light. He was smirking. "Well, Audrienne, I murder middleschoolers and you talk to TV sets. You tell me." Then he paused and tilted his head. "On the other hand, you did convince a few kiddies to kill themselves...which on reflection isn't that much of an accomplishment either, since after my first hour of listening to you, *I* was ready to kill myself."  
  
"Really?" Audrienne asked with a hopeful grin.  
  
"No."  
  
"Dammit!"  
  
"Now, now, take heart, it's not that you and your buddy Mr. Broken Television aren't insanely annoying."  
  
"I thought you were a masochist!"  
  
"Trust me, Audrey dear, nobody's *that* much of a masochist."  
  
"Hey, Rich, honey, you like nail polish?"  
  
"Duh."  
  
Audrienne placed her fist against the bars, then slowly extended her middle finger, flipping an elegant bird. "What's my color?"  
  
Richard would have returned a suitably snide comment, but both killers' attentions were diverted by several loud thumps on the roof.  
  
"Wonder what that is?"  
  
* * *  
  
The second Ian Nottingham had several notable characteristics. One he identified was his fashion sense, which he felt improved on both his older and younger brothers. One others identified was his ever-present evil smirk, which was capable on occasion of widening into a full-fledged psychotic grin. This, even more than his sky-high aggression level and conviction that killing was just a lot of fun, had landed him in the spot he was in as he touched down on the roof of the 11th Precinct, right above the holding cells.  
  
The smile was more of a rictus at this point, held in place out of habit. However he might leap from rooftop to rooftop, he was utterly unable to escape...HER. It should have been impossible. He had all his originator's Black Dragon memories, and his body was identically conditioned. He was stealth personified.  
  
Well, he thought, looking around with white-edged eyes, she wasn't here. Not yet. Maybe he'd finally gotten a...  
  
Thud. Thud Thud.  
  
"PUDDIN!!!" His hand moved for his sword, and was immediately bound behind his back by thousands of brightly colored streamers. They constricted, and he wobbled, then fell to the roof, his skull rebounding just a little upon contact.  
  
SHE was here.  
  
The two spotted beasts that sidled up, licking his face while emitting barking laughs, confirmed this. The hyenas were laughing at him. Had to be.  
  
Then the hyenas were neatly displaced by a woman in red and black motley. "Oooh, Puddin, naughty-naughty playing hard to get." She said this, of course, while straddling his streamer-swathed chest, ticking her finger back and forth in his face. He snapped his teeth at her finger. She giggled.  
  
"I knew the minute I saw you that we were meant to be," she sighed. "Alla Mr. J's good looks in a younger model." She leaned a little closer. "Confidentially, there's a little grey peeking outta all that green, y'know."  
  
"You know I'm entirely wrong for you," Ian 2.0 said, a little desperately. "I haven't got a sense of humor."  
  
"Everybody's got a sense of humor! Me, I think you're just the type for Bob."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Whaddaya call a guy with no arms and no legs, floating in the ocean? Bob."  
  
Despite himself, Ian 2 snickered.  
  
"Whaddaya call a guy with no arms and no legs in front of a house? Matt."  
  
He swallowed an actual laugh this time, and Harley clapped her hands. "Ha! Knew it!"  
  
"Hey, I've got one for you," he began. "What do you call..." but then his voice dropped to a mumble.  
  
Harley leaned close. "What? Didn't catch..."  
  
His head shot up then, forehead impacting chin. As Harley rolled off of him, stunned, he flexed hard and split the wrappings down the sides. He then wasted no time running; save to turn back and yell, "What do you call a clown with a concussion? Sucker!" Then he was leaping again, hyenas and a somewhat dazed Harley Quinn on his tail.  
  
When he leapt the next roof juncture, he muttered to himself, "This is my karma for those mimes. Has to be."  
  
As he was running full-tilt from rooftop to rooftop, he didn't see the familiar, lurking shadow until it was too late.  
  
But then, the man was stealth personified.  
  
* * *  
  
Somewhere below and not too far away, Sara Pezzini wiped electric blue goop out of her hair and sighed. She shook the slime off her unbladed hand and let it glop to the pavement. "Peter, you sure know how to show a girl a good time."  
  
Peter Venkman, Ghostbuster and semi-practicing shrink, shrugged. "Bubba there had a little bit of a grudge. We busted some buddies of his in the park last week, and he's been tailing us since." He hoisted the ghost trap by the tail and it smoked slightly.  
  
"Lovely," Pez replied. "He got any more friends?"  
  
"Hope not! I didn't even know we missed that one."  
  
"Yeesh."  
  
"Oh well," Venkman said gamely. "You still up for a burger?"  
  
"Sure, I guess."  
  
On a rooftop high above, a hooded shadow watched his Sara with yet another man that wasn't him. This was the current Ian Nottingham, third in a series, born of Sara Pezzini's reversal of time and his subsequent experiences. Ian 3.0 tried to tell himself that this relationship was as transient, that it wouldn't last, and that if it were anything profound, his father's shade would take a hand. He sensed something of the sort on the horizon, though it was yet vague.  
  
Still, it galled him, and he passed the time wondering how many ways there were to sabotage a portable nuclear reactor in a way that would only damage its wearer. He was up to twenty-three when he saw a red blob streak down out of the sun.  
  
He stood to call out to Sara, when, as with the blue ghost minutes ago, his actions became academic. The red specter bounced against the ground before her, depositing a huge glob of red slime that she and Venkman smacked into.  
  
"Not again!" he heard his Sara moan, arming herself while Venkman pulled his thrower yet again, and then Ian 3 sensed a presence at his back. He whirled and the other brought himself up short.  
  
He looked into a distorted mirror - black-on-black suit in favor of his black sweats, hair tight rather than loose, beard ... ridiculously tiny, though he'd never say that to his brother's face. Ian 2.0 stared at his counterpart with the wide eyes of a hunted animal.  
  
"The Quinn woman again?" Ian the Third asked.  
  
"She's right behind me! We have to move!"  
  
"PUDDIN!!!"  
  
"No, oh, no!"  
  
As the clown-woman launched a running tackle at Ian 2.0, several things happened at once. She hurtled, Ian 2 recoiled, and Ian 3 braced himself to keep them all from falling off the side of the building. Also, the red ghost fled proton streams through the corner of the roof, directly under the feet of all concerned. He left behind a substantial deposit of slime.  
  
Very slippery slime.  
  
Meanwhile, below, Venkman and Pezzini were just winning free of the now- huge mound of red goo. Something, perhaps the wind, perhaps the loud, three- throated scream of "Aaaaauuuughh!!!" drew the Wielder's attention, and she whirled to see three people falling through the air. Instinctively, she dove into the slime to catch them, Peter with her.  
  
It was, as it turned out, unnecessary - slime is great for absorbing kinetic energy. All involved were unhurt. Of course, all involved were also a five-person, two-hyena dogpile of limbs, blades, and assorted other weaponry, coated head-to-toe in red Jell-o. The red ghost floated above them, blew a huge raspberry, and then zoomed away.  
  
The commotion had attracted residents of the building, all leaning out of their apartment windows. It was a nice part of town, and the clientele was well heeled. It was just the sort of place, in fact, that a semi-retired Immortal thief might entertain the new man in her life, as well as a very old friend.  
  
Methos, Amanda, and the original Ian Nottingham leaned out the window. They leaned, they looked, and they stared. Then Methos said, "That's something you don't see every day."  
  
Nottingham 1 looked up at him in entreaty. "Please, please tell me you have a camera. Sir."  
  
"My place, my camera," proclaimed Amanda, and the three ran for all they were worth.  
  
* * *  
  
They made it to the street in record time, Amanda snapping at incredible speed. Ian 2.0 was the first up.  
  
"The camera, now."  
  
"Nuh-uh," Amanda replied, and his eyes widened as he recognized his brother's Immortal paramour. Harley, though, didn't know her from Eve, so she stood, aimed her one of her novelty guns, and said, "Hey. What my Puddin' wants, my Puddin' gets." Then her eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed.  
  
"Delayed reaction?" asked Ian 2.0, but Ian 3 just pointed wordlessly. Behind her stood Pez, Witchblade formed into a large rubbery mallet.  
  
Pez shrugged. "It just seemed appropriate."  
  
Meanwhile, the other Ians had had time to notice Methos, and Methos had had time to whisper urgently that he was incognito and would explain later. So Pez missed that entire exchange, and was a tiny bit confused by the pregnant glances being exchanged, but that was nothing new. Still, she had a feeling that she ought to know the thin man from somewhere.  
  
"So," Peter said gamely, "Same time next week?"  
  
"Um, maybe," Pez replied.  
  
Ian 3 tried to hide a grin. Ian 1 kicked him in the ankle, which helped.  
  
* * *  
  
END  
  
TMF 


End file.
